


The Purple People

by Flamefox2



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Five Nights at Freddy's 2, Five Nights at Freddy's 3, Five Nights at Freddy's 3 Spoilers, Freddy's Pizzaria, Future Character Death, One-Sided Attraction, Other, Pre-Five Nights at Freddy's 2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-21 01:48:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6033598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flamefox2/pseuds/Flamefox2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he had the choice, he would never have committed such a sin. He would never have killed those small children, he would never have inspired the new string of murders, he would never have become so overcome with guilt that he spent what little time he had to sleep laying in a bedbug-ridden bed contemplating everything wrong he had done in his life, including continuing to work at the establishment.</p><p>If she had a choice, she wouldn't change anything. After all, he thought, why would a girl without fear hesitate about living in the same house as a retired killer?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She didn't care if he were wearing a tutu while chasing after her with a chainsaw; the notion was hilarious--she'd still laugh.

So this was it. This was the way she was expected to die--in the back room of a pizzeria, a juvenile adolescent not yet in her prime, standing before a man with purple hair dressed in a purple uniform, of all colors. Purple. Like a fucking plum, but thinner, taller, wielding a glinting steel knife and an irritated smile on his face. Which was decorated with a strong jaw, a 5 o'clock shadow, and sparkling violet eyes so deep and crazed they were almost black.

Yes, she could see him just well, lurking in the darkness, slowly advancing, hand clenching the knife tightly. She could see him just fine in the pitch. It was a wonder he could see her, though maybe the green glow-in-the-dark necklace she wore helped with that... yeah, that was probably it. But she could see him easily enough despite this, and it was not because for the faint reflection on the knife or on the security badge or the belt buckle.

She moved, slightly, lifting her hands behind her neck and taking it off. Her heart pounded as it often did, limbs moving methodically and thoughtfully with the practice of a game master. Yeah, this was a game. She saw his composure slipping, as his eyes widened and his smile twisted and his limbs lurched himself forward with a grunt. A mere half-step to the side was all that she needed to evade the lunge. The knife hit the metal and she saw sparks, but the sound was drowned out by a well-timed squeal on the other side of the door. Turning, the employee looked around.

His eyes landed on the necklace, which was laying by his foot on the ground, abandoned.

"Where...?" he asked, eyes glaring, looking around with fury. The girl was quiet, watching, evaluating. The sound of her gentle, unaltered breathing was now his only answer. Her hand reached into her pocket after a moment, idly rustling an old candy wrapper that was in her jeans and had been for weeks. The kind that was plastic and clear, and made a lot of noise.

He turned in her general direction, appearing confused. "Do you have a death wish?" he asked, gripping the knife in a pale hand.

"No." She finally spoke, and her voice was dispassionate.

He huffed, irritated, biting his lower lip as he slowly sidled to the door. "I'm trying to kill you, you know," the purple guy hissed.

"The understatement of the century. Congratulations."

He blinked, recoiling, shock in his eyes. "Wh-what?!" he exclaimed, waveringly. Then, quieter, "Aren't you scared? You should be terrified."

"I am. Terrified that I'll be bored to death."

He just stared over her shoulder. Then he turned the light on, and she winced, shielding her eyes as her pupils adjusted. The safe room. They were in the safe room.

...Which was initially made for things like hurricanes or tornadoes or some other alien feature but was instead made into the employee break room, decorated with a snack machine and a drink machine and even an arcade game that was out of order because some kid probably slipped in and broke the screen. Or a very angry employee. Some chairs and a table, with a few papers and knickknacks assorted randomly, and Spring Freddy and Spring Bonnie tucked away neatly in the corner. Yes, she had her back turned to the murderer. If he were to kill her, he'd best do it now.

He didn't, and when she looked back at him, he was leaning on the door, arms crossed with an inquisitive eyebrow raised. The knife was still sticking from his grip--a kitchen knife, she realized, from the kitchen in the diner--unexpectedly loose and slack in his grip.

"You missed the opportune moment," she said, stuffing her hand in her pocket again. The plastic was crispy under her fingers, a likable noise in a nice, quiet place where chaos was dominant. "If you wanted to kill me, then why didn't you?"

"So you're not scared?" he asked, preferring question over answer. "Not one bit?"

"Oh, no. I'm terrified of a man with flower-colored hair dressed in a plum skin head-to-toe. Absolutely..." she paused, searching for a word. "...Mortified."

He chuckled, shrugging his shoulders, though despite his relaxed appearance, he was evidently tense, wary in case she ran away. Of course, she couldn't. There was one entrance and one exit, branching one on top of the other, and the purple guy was standing right in front of it. Besides, she'd heard it lock as short while earlier. She'd need his keys, which were in his pocket, and frankly it was awkward enough to be talking to a murderer sanely--sticking her hand where it didn't belong was just plain embarrassing.

Plus he was taller and stronger than her. Of course, there was that. Funny how she was (basically) flirting with Death, and she was more concerned with her pride than she was about the ride.

"Why aren't you scared, kid?" he asked when she finally looked away, surveying the safe room... employees lounge... whichever. She walked up to the Spring suits, kneeling down, staring at them. Their eyes were closed, they looked asleep but they were dead.

"I've run my fear out years ago," she explained, not looking back at him. A finger brushed some dust from the musky, velvet-covered suits, smearing it further over her fingers. The suits were old, she decided, like an archaic device long-forgotten. Why didn't they use these suits? "That's all there is to it. My fear battery ran out."

"It doesn't work that way," purple guy said. She heard him shift slightly, and turned her head halfway, though she still watched the golden suits. "Are you curious about those ones?"

Hmm? Curious? "I suppose I am," she admitted with a nonchalant shrug, running a hand over the rabbit's arm. After all, it wasn't every day you saw a golden animatronic crumple and rust away. How gruesome. "I mean, gold is heavy and fragile. Weak."

"Who did you come to the pizzeria with?" he asked, walking over to the table and setting down the knife. She heard it, didn't see it, but the question made her turn her head and tilt it inquiringly.

"Hmm?"

"You have to be accompanied by an adult if you want to enter Freddy Fazbear's Pizzeria. It's an establishment based around family. You can't be older than... what, twelve?"

"Ten," she corrected, standing up and brushing her hand off on her pants. Several long locks of hair peeked from beneath her hat, some golden, some scarlet, all wavy, and she brushed them to the side over her ear. "I'm a child adult. In a child's world, I am their peer-adult, just as adults are the teen's peer-adults. So I'm allowed in here by that logic, right?"

Purple guy whistled. "Wow. Weird kid. But it doesn't work like that."

"I know. It's how I work. No adult or kid thinks like that." She went over to a chair and pushed it so the back faced the table. She sat down in it in a rebel-esque fashion, arms draping over the back. Another chance for him to kill her, and if he didn't, she'd deduce that he wasn't going to anymore.

He didn't. He went over to the door and unlocked it before coming back. She felt his eyes on her, but she ignored it. "I'm a secret-keeper, by the way," she added, perching her chin on her arms. "Don't worry about me, purple man. Don't worry about yourself, either, actually."

"...Hmm. You really are a weird kid... my name's Vincent, by the way. You?"

"Clarence." A boy's name. What fun. His reaction?

He snorted. Clarence heard him running a hand over his mouth, grazing over his unshaven face. She always did like unshaved faces. "Wow. I've never heard of a more ridiculous name," he said before he laughed.

She said nothing.

"So where do you live, huh, little boy?" he asked, chuckling, rubbing his face as helpless giggles overtook him.

"I'm a girl."

He paused. "Huh?"

"I'm a girl," she repeated, a tone of irritation in her voice. To demonstrate, she lifted a hand and pulled off her hat. Her long hair, in a messy bun, stuck up, and she pulled it out and threaded her fingers through the tangles. Her eyes skimmed... Vincent, was it? Taking note of the confounded, curious expression on his face, the kind only a startled adult can have. "More specifically, I am Clarence Nightingale, who's lived in this area her whole life and has never been to this pizzeria all but thrice. That is who I am, Vincent. I am merely a macabre girl in a world of gore and guts."

He almost--almost--seemed to flinch. It caused a devious smirk to worm its way on her features, a feeling of satisfaction warming her gut. "You thought I was going to say gold and glory, heh."

"Sort of," he admitted. "Then again, 'macabre' doesn't really fit with those two words, does it? ...No, it does not." He answered his own question and chuckled, and the purple man pulled up a seat of his own and rested o it, leaning on the table with his heel against his knee. "Now I have a question."

"Shoot." She put her hands in a gun position and aimed it square at his forehead. Pow, she mouthed, and drew the gun back in recoil. And he was dead, just like that, laying on the ground in a spreading pool of his own blood. Eyes startled and lifeless, forever open even in death, limbs splayed all about. ...Hah. Yeah, right. Closer inspection, she realized, revealed soft, lavender eyes. Not black. Where did black come from? she wondered, thinking back to when he was trying to kill her minutes before.

"If I stabbed you in the back right now, what would you--"

"I'd scream in pain, turn around, kick you in the balls, pull out the knife, skin you alive, and leave you to rot."

"Hmm. And if I were to--"

"Wear a tutu while doing it? Same, but I'd be laughing like a maniac because I killed a fairy."

"What?" He laughed. "You really are weird."

"So are you. I gave you two chances to kill me and you decided to toss it ou--"

Purple guy jumped when something thudded into the door of the safe room, and he glanced over at it, frowning. Clarence looked, too, but wasn't startled. Small hands slammed on the door, hollering, before happy giggles took form and the thudding stopped. A glance at the purple man, and she saw his mouth drawn into a frown; shadows in his eyes, irritation on his face. Eyes black, almost.

"One of the kids?" she questioned, tilting her head.

"Yeah." His voice was rather stiff. Worry creased his forehead--for himself, not for the children, and that made her curious.

"You look disturbed," she noted, perching her cheek on her hand as she leaned on the chair. Almost--almost--afraid, she sensed. Apprehensive, at least.

"I don't like the kids that come here," purple guy muttered, shaking his head lightly and scratching his hip. "They are, see... spoiled, selfish, ungrateful little brats." A shudder in his voice, and he rubbed his arm. She said nothing, and he said nothing, too. Clarence found herself wishing she could read minds.

Purple guy finally looked over at her and offered a toothy smirk. Instinct told her it was creepy, her gut wrenching in her stomach, trying to warn her shockless mind, but she remained calm and her brain was clear. There was no fear in her mind, just in her stomach. "So, kid, I got another question."

"Yeah?" she questioned, tilting her head blankly.

"If I let you go, will you tell anyone what happened back here just now?"

She blinked, and then she leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "That depends."

"Hmm?"

"Do you want me to?"

There was an awkward moment of silence, in which his 'creepy' smirk faded and the discomfort in her stomach faded. Finally he said, "Of course I don't."

"Then the question here is: How good is the pizza here?"


	2. Closing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vincent never really liked Winston.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I reserve no rights to the Five Nights at Freddy's Franchise.

Vincent stood outside the pizzeria staring across a horizon stained with eventide colors. The grey buildings of the city way off in the distance gave off a strange, surreal glow, slight orange and pink with a dusty coating of fog. The clouds, he thought, looked nice, too. This was one of those rare twilit moments where he took a second to stare off into the distance and reflect on how  _miserable_ his life was.

Leaning against the cement wall, his gaze drifted skyward, a wave of exhaustion flowing throughout his body. He allowed his arms to sag and a yawn to leave his mouth, closing his eyes for a moment. Somewhere off to his right, he heard Scottish speaking to some anonymous employees, congratulating them on a job well done. He supposed they deserved it--after all, it'd been a busy day at Freddy Fazbear's Pizzeria.

"Hey, Vinni!"

Vincent cringed at the nickname, taking into account that only one person would dare call him that and that aforementioned person was right behind him. He glanced behind him to find a man with a pink day security guard uniform standing there, a broad smile on his face. He snickered, voice thick and lazy.

"Aww, did I scare you? I'm so sorry, Vinni."

A distasteful scowl almost made its way to his face, but he forced himself to retain his neutrality. Of all the employees who remained largely anonymous,there were only two that he could recognize without looking at their name tags: Scottish and Winston. Scottish, because they lived (ironically) in the same district, though Vincent had a small, crap apartment he could barely afford for all that the repairs cost. And Scottish (who worked shorter hours, for God's sake, and got better pay) lived in a mobile home. Of course, he lived with his little brother, which probably helped a great deal.

And Winston because... well. There wasn't much to be said about him.

"Please don't call me that," Vincent said, his voice quiet as it always was after working the day shift.

He laughed again, reaching a hand up to pat Vincent's shoulder. He shivered, not from the cold or that Winston patted his shoulder so slowly, as if he knew something Vincent didn't. For all he knew, he did--Vincent never made a big effort to stay after hours until his night shift started, preferring to go home and get some much-needed sleep. No, it was how Winston always-- _always_ \--smiled, even after two children disappeared under mysterious, unknown circumstances.

It'd be fine, he thought, if they had been kids that were forever selfish... but they were good children. They always said hello and how are you, and Vincent enjoyed the time he spent with them.

Granted, yes, he had killed kids, but that was in the past. The guilt would haunt his nightmares for as long as he lived, and although he knew that justification had to be done, he didn't much like the thought of going to prison and submitting his freedom.

"Sorry, Vinni," Winston said. Nothing in his voice was apologetic. Vincent's insides winced with the desire to shove him.

"Hey," he said suddenly, shocking Vincent out of his subconscious thoughts. He had a knack for doing that, putting everyday words in a sense that was so abrupt that without even changing his tone of voice, everybody paid attention. Imagine a dog barking at night while you're trying to get to sleep--it's the same bark, but it seems more piercing because you don't want to hear it then. Winston continued: "I saw you take a kid into the safe room yesterday."

Yesterday was a Monday. Vincent only remembered it because of the mental breakdown he'd suffered at home that morning. ...And also because of the girl he'd snuck in there to kill, but she 'got away'.

"Uhm... yeah. I know it's against the rules, but..."

Winston smiled curiously, eyes watching him like a disappointed animal. The contradiction on his face made Vincent stop for a moment, unsure what to think. Not for the first time, Vincent wondered if this new string of murders was the effect of him--Winston, the man who always smiled, the man who accidentally tossed his uniform with his sister's clothes before she died and ended up with the only pink uniform in the Fazbear chain of restaurants. He dismissed it: There was no way such a lazy man could find the strength in him to kill a child, right? Always complaining about work, how he has to clean the bathroom when he's just paid to stand around all day and watch the kids. He'd even demanded overtime payment on occasion, always lazily, always as if he didn't care, but the strangeness in his voice made it clear that he did. Always smiling.

Always smiling.

"...She, uh... needed a quiet place to study. And do her homework," he added hurriedly. Why had he started with a lie? After he brought pizza into the break room, Vincent watched... 'Clarence', if he recalled correctly, unfold a sheet of paper from her jacket pocket and get started on her homework. It was math, and Vincent couldn't help but correct her on her synthetic division.

Winston's smile became crooked, like it did when he was either irritated or entertained. "Watch yourself, Vinni," he said, putting his hands in his pockets. His voice hadn't shifted from that ear-catching... _way_ that he talked. "With all the disappearing kids that the company's been covering up, taking kids to a place with no cameras might make people think you're the murderer of 1983.'

_1983._

"Of course," Winston laughed, his eyes twinkling like emeralds, voice relaxing to its previous state, dripping with laziness, "it was an accident. The springs got wet. But, oh... weren't you there when it happened?"

_Please get away from me._

"Winston." The voice came from behind Vincent, and he straightened reflexively, looking behind him. Scottish stood there--bronze skin, black hair, tall, strong figure. The evernoon light cast a glint over his glasses that could be defined as only intimidating. The trademark purple uniform that he always wore at work had been loosened and his posture was akimbo. "Stop patronizing your coworker. You both work for the same company and you both need to treat each other with all due respect."

Vincent breathed a sigh of relief. Behind him, Winston chuckled. "Of course," he said. "Forgive me for my impudence. Have a great night, Vinni~ Scottie~"

"Don't--" Scottish said, but it was too late. Vincent heard Winston skipping down the sidewalk, and even saw him out the corner of his eye, acting like a child with his arms outstretched like an airplane.

"It's the--eye of the tiger, It's the thrill of the fight!"

Scottish sighed, shaking his head. Vincent looked down at his feet for a moment, heart thumping painfully. A feeling of nausea wormed its way up his esophagus. "God, I hate that man," Scottish grumbled, another sigh coming through his throat.

"I don't like him, either," Vincent admitted. When his statement was met with silence, he glanced up, frowning. Scottish was looking off after Winston, a look of disapproval on his face. He hesitated. "Scott, I don't like him either."

Scottish glanced over at him, then looked over at Winston, shielding his eyes from the sun as he watched. "What do you not like about him most, his stinginess, his hypocrisy, or how he treats the other employees?"

He said nothing about Vincent's nickname, he registered vaguely, and that made him smile faintly. 1983 still loomed in the back of his head, but it wasn't as imposing anymore. "I don't like him at all."

"I think that he thinks that you like him," Scottish said, looking away from the corner that the pink uniformed man just went around and turning to Vincent. A troubled look was on his face. Scottish and him, they didn't talk very often, only to greet each other in the morning and occasionally to say their farewells after hours. Scottish knew little about 1983, knew little about 1985, and definitely didn't know anything about 1981, mainly because he didn't start working there until 1984, the period of rediscovering the destiny of the once-disbanded now-rebranded Fazbear franchise, but also because he didn't really _want_ to know. Vincent was thankful for that--it meant that he didn't have any reason to doubt the legitimacy of the chain.

Ignorance was Vincent's ally right now.

"I don't see why he'd think that. I really...  _really_ don't like him." He kept bringing up bad memories, kept doing so intentionally just to see the reaction on Vincent's face. He hated him.

Scottish shrugged. "You're not a bad person, yet someone like that's gravitating toward you. How long's he been working with the Fazbear organization?"

"Since the late '70s." 1978, if Vincent wasn't mistaken. He remembered seeing that pink uniform in the back of Fredbear's Family Diner, way back when, watching the kids and the parents with a faint smile on his face, when he was a teenager himself. Always with the smile. He shuddered.

The taller man hummed a little bit, lifting a hand up to scratch the side of his head before adjusting his red glasses. The shadow of his hand shielded his face from the sun, showing that his coffee brown eyes were now directed to the wall of the pizzeria, and then flickered to the overly-large vent cover. For the overly-large ventilation system that wound around the party rooms. Large and clunky, Vincent thought. “What about you?” he asked a little awkwardly. “How long’ve you been working at Freddy’s?”

Vincent shrugged, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest, a shiver passing through him. “Maybe, um… since I was in high school…. And when I was in that crummy community college.” The college that practically handed out engineering degrees to anyone who knew the difference between a wrench and a chainsaw. It’d been enough to up his pay an extra dollar an hour in return for doing engineering work on the animatronics at Freddy’s.

Scottish nodded his head sagely, a look of contemplation crossing his features again. Vincent felt a smile begin to form, soft and tentative. He always found it rather interesting how Scottish always acted older than he really was. Well, he had a little brother, but Scottish was still a year younger than Vincent, as far as he knew, and he’d been working at Freddy’s for a much shorter period of time than he had been.

“Do you think you’ll be good for another night here?” Scottish asked, looking over at Vincent, his eyes half-lidded. The smile drowned slightly, and Vincent nodded.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

There was no conviction behind his voice. In all actuality, he didn’t really believe it—and Scottish didn’t believe the reason why he was never even able to sleep on his graveyard shift, because Vincent needed it and no one would dare sneak into Freddy’s Pizzeria after its bad history (All Scottish knew about the legacy was the urban myth his little brother told him, and he didn’t believe in those old rumors anyway.). He stared at him before shaking his head, disappointed.

“You need to get to sleep, Vincent,” he said. “You work practically non-stop. Are you trying to prove something to someone?”

His jaw clenched and he stood upright. Rage bubbled in his chest, but he stifled it like he always did, forcing himself to neutrality. “Why’d you ask that, Scott?”

“It’s not good for your health, is all. As your stand-in boss” –full-time boss, Vincent corrected in his mind, and he saw the same thought flash in his boss' posture—“it’s part of my job to concern myself with your well-being.”

“Scott, I live alone. I’m a single child. If you’re suggesting that I’m trying to do better than my dad or something, get rid of that trope.” He wasn’t able to withhold the bite in his tone. “I never even knew him.”

Scottish was a good person. But sometimes he didn't know when to keep to himself.

Scottish nodded sagely, not realizing the tender spot that he'd just scratched. "All right, then. Just get home soon and get some sleep. You still have the night job to do."

Vincent gulped, inwardly cringing, and Scottish glanced over again. He gave no indication that everything was wrong, and only smiled his best smile to him and nodded. "All right. Will do."

"All right. I'll see you tomorrow."

When Scottish left, Vincent went over to the corner and looked around it, eyes narrowing drowsily when he noted the others entering their cars and saying farewell to each other. Their faces were blurry in his memory, like always. All he could distinguish from them were their genders, and even then sometimes it was hard.

Upon seeing the cars leave the parking lot and leaving frigid air in its wake, he sighed, letting his back rest flat against the wall and sliding down. The dim hum of the air conditioner and the sound of the outdoors was a welcome comfort, and one that he was sure he wouldn't know for very long. He'd been at this place for too long; he knew the hidden terrors that lurked around each corner and in the eyes of the mechanical animals. He felt his heart pounding painfully in his chest, so he rubbed over it, hoping to soothe it. All that it did was allow him to feel it in his fingertips, too.

1983\. Vincent hated that year more than anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work can also be located on fanfiction.net under the same username that I use here.


	3. Shift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He turned back towards the Puppet's camera, winding up the music box, before lowering the monitor and checking the halls. Freddy the Old and Chica the Young still stood there, one ragged and one offering. No Foxy. He checked the vents to either side again, double-checking the right shaft, before turning back to the camera.
> 
> He heard a thunk in the right vent.

It would have been easy to say that Vincent's night went by as any Tuesday night did. Like it always was, it was just a polished version of the night before, and it'd continue to be polished until he couldn't see and was instead blinded by the luminescence. Shining light down the hallway and, upon seeing Foxy, flashing it on and off gently, because he had only one eye and lights always scrambled his sensory system. Check the ventilation shafts to either side to ensure that none of the animatronics were sneaking in. Slip on the Freddy head (barely able to contain his panic) as Bonnie stared at him with an empty face. Remove the mask and wind the music box, bearing in mind that anything could sneak in while he did so and pull down the monitor.

When you felt like you were safe, that's when they struck.

It would have been easy to say that he knew how to handle it when he heard an unfamiliar sound in the vent. He never checked the ventilation cameras and hadn't done so since the first few days that they got the new camera system a year or so ago. There was a reason for that--it was a waste of time and effort. If they were coming at him from the sides, he'd be able to turn on the light to the ventilation in his office and see them before taking necessary measures.

He ignored it first. It was the same vent that Toy Bonnie and Mangle generally crawled through, with their plastic, cheap smiles, and figured that it was about time they come anyways. It was three in the morning and he hadn't seen them anywhere but in the hallway.

The noise continued, and he checked the hallway, seeing Toy Chica standing with her beakless grin and her happy cupcake. He wondered not for the first time where her eyes went when she wandered the halls at night and went to checking the vents. Nothing in either vent. A little frustrated, he listened, hearing the sound continue, so he checked the left vent again to see if Balloon Boy was there.

He wasn't. The shiny boy with the toy grin had been there two or three times that night, crawling through and passing by under the assumption that there was no adult there. Flustered and confused, Vincent turned to the camera, glancing at the Puppet's music box before flipping through the vents.

Nothing in the left vents. There were only faint tendrils of cobwebs, from spiders that long abandoned their stations when they discovered the trafficking problem.  _Maybe I should clean the vents tomorrow._ He chuckled numbly to himself and shook his head, reminding himself that it wasn't his job, he wasn't a janitor, he was a guard, and he should remember his place.  _But I might get paid extra._ The selfish thought was enough to jar him out of his inner misery to cough, shocked at himself. He'd done this before and had been through this a hundred times with himself--'extra' in the Freddy franchise was a matter of cents. Working longer than needed upped the pay by a measly fifty cents.

No, he didn't have time to work extra hours. He had enough work and he was already tired as it was.

Vincent stifled a yawn, turning from the dusty vents to the left to the rusty vents to the right.

He saw nothing--again--except a faint black splotch secluded to the corner. He leaned toward the monitor and narrowed his eyes, a puzzled frown on his face. It wasn't the first time he saw it (at first he had a small panic attack before realizing it guaranteed no harm to him), but it did bring him concern. The splotches were there for perhaps three or four weeks, and it slowly spread until it covered almost the entire corner. He'd have to tell Scottish tomorrow... if he remembered. No, it'd be better to leave a note on the desk for him to read later.

 

He turned back towards the Puppet's camera, winding up the music box, before lowering the monitor and checking the halls. Freddy the Old and Chica the Young still stood there, one ragged and one offering. No Foxy. He checked the vents to either side again, double-checking the right shaft, before turning back to the camera.

He heard a  _thunk_ in the right vent.

The room was filled with a stiff silence, broken only by the Puppet's music box and the gentle, unsettling hum of the fan. For the first time that night, he realized how dark and miserable the room was, and thought it a shame that he had to die in such a place after nearly four years of fighting for his life. A weak chuckle emanated in his throat.

It was brokenly silent for another minute.

He turned to the vents and saw nothing again.

He turned the light to the hallway and nothing was there.

He blinked, startled by the sudden vacancy, the silence broken by the humming fan.

He was quiet for the longest time.  _Oh, great. I've finally gone insane._

Or maybe he just snapped out of his insanity. Either way, he was unsettled by it, after four years of getting used to the schedule. Vincent sniffled slightly, daring to reach over the desk to pull out a tissue and wipe his nose. His heart felt like a jackhammer, breaking his concrete rib cage and ripping it from the inside-out.

 Suddenly he heard clanking, and the clanking was getting closer. Quickly, he turned to the cameras and froze. What was that?

... _No._

It  _couldn't be._

_It couldn't be that girl from earlier._

Vincent wandered over to the vent to his right, a weird sort of ease spreading through his body. If he was right, then what could be the worst that'd happen? He was worrying for nothing. The animatronics wouldn't hurt a child, after all. That's why they weren't passing through the vents, right?

He crouched down and peered through, eyes narrow and squinting. It hurt his muscles a little, and it was difficult to see in the shiny darkness, but he could scarcely make out a small, shadowy figure pulling its way towards the office, grumbling occasionally. When it looked up, it stopped.

"...Hello?" said Vincent, surprised at how much his voice cracked. Oh, God, he was so relieved. Why had he tried to kill her? She'd just saved him from having a panic attack.

"Hello," she echoed tonelessly. Of course she wasn't worried--Vincent gathered that she didn't worry about much, even when someone pulled a knife on her. She seemed calm, even though deeper in the ventilation, he heard the scraping of metal on metal. His addled brain tried to figure out something to say but found nothing.

"How are you?" he found himself saying, as she pulled herself out and sat up on her knees, glancing around disconnectedly. When he spoke, she turned towards him, eyes slightly narrowed and calculative.

"Fine," she said. The girl seemed like she was expecting him to do something, and seemed ready to attack.

Vincent was too tired. It crossed his mind to ask her what she was doing there--why she was there, even--but he was too tired and disinterested to care right now. "Good," he said instead, standing. He looked at the clock, frowning slightly. That whole episode had lasted scarcely more than an hour. His shift was almost up, just another hour to go. Get ready to get up at about noon to go to work, Vincent.

He sighed. The purple man glanced over at Clarence, rubbing his eye tiredly, weary and fatigued. "So, uh... I guess you can stay until my shift's over. I'll take you home after."

"Right, I'll get in a car with an eggplant murderer." Clarence's tone was dry and humorless; she looked at him with passionless eyes. Vincent let himself skim her a moment, noticing that she was wearing the same jacket that she had earlier at the restaurant--denim and dark, almost black. Her hands were in her pockets, casual as could ever be. How long had she been there?

Gah, doesn't matter. She could dress up however she wanted, for all he knew, she was one of those people that got dressed and fell asleep in what they were going to wear the next day. What he should be focused on was the conversation. He couldn't afford to let his attention wander off elsewhere right now. "Right," he said, shrugging. "Maybe not the best idea. How about I... call your parents, okay? No?" Vincent frowned when she started glaring at him, quietly, glowering. "You don't want me to call your parents?"

"I don't have any. I never knew my parents, and I don't care who they are." She shrugged, her pale face contorting to disgust. A surge of envy passed through him.

"Okay," he said, glancing around. "How about I, um... call... Scottish?" he suggested helplessly. Now he was just spurting random crap, he didn't even know Scottish's number. But maybe he could find it, if he tried.

She shook her head. "No."

"All right," he said, rubbing his backside a little, "if you're an... orphan"--God, that was such a tough word to say--"then do you live in an orphanage or something?"

"If I did, do you think I'd be here?"

"Right... good point."

She was quiet, leering up at him with.

"...How about your foster parents?"

"No," she said. "They don't care about me. They just want the money they get for taking care of me."

Oh, was that right? Then apparently they were one of those selfish types of people that use others for what they want. Perhaps they were people that used children to string necklaces or make clay pots and gave them the bare minimum. Child labor, right? He'd heard of such tales from the TV in the break room, from Scottish's irritated ramblings, from discarded newspapers that he found on the side of the...

"Then what should I do with you?" Vincent asked, looking down at the girl. He wasn't happy when all she did was shrug.

Perhaps he should have been angry with her. Perhaps he should have taken her outside and given her a two-hour lecture before making her walk home to her abusive foster parents. Perhaps he should even have called the police and get her into trouble for breaking and entering.

But he doubted that any of these things would end well, and he was really running out of ideas.

She shrugged, starting to wander about the office. She picked up one of the stuffed animals and stared at it, stared deep into the eyes of Plush Mangle, unhurt and unaltered by petty children's hands. "What do you call this one?" she asked, ignoring the question and holding it up to Vincent.

He stared at it for a moment, taking in Mangle's one eye patch, his slight smile, the two teeth that stuck out of the front of his snout. "...The staff calls him 'Mangle', he explained, noticing her smirk.

She looked at the plush toy, squeezing its belly a little. "Well, that seems like a rather cold name for a child's idol, doesn't it?"

Vincent thought the same. "Well, the  _staff_ calls him 'the Mangle'," he explained, rubbing his eyes. "We don't... say the nickname in front of the..." His explanation was cut short by a yawn, and he didn't even bother finishing. Instead he sat down in the office chair again, rubbing his eyes and trying his damnedest to stay awake.

"What are you even doing here?" he asked quietly, looking at her through his fingers. "You should be at home, even if it is a living hell."

Clarence laughed. Shortly, at first. And then it got longer, slightly louder. It didn't take him long to recognize the sarcasm in it, and it probably took him longer than it should have.

"You know what, never mind."

This wasn't answering the question of what he should do with her. If what she said before was true, then she really shouldn't go home to begin with. It'd be best if she were with a trustworthy adult, but she didn't want him to find Scottish's number, and Winston, of course, couldn't be trusted with children. Vincent hated to imagine if he had a child.

She stopped at that, turning back to the toys on the desk. "So what's with all these things?" she asked, putting the Mangle down and picking up the Toy Bonnie figurine instead.

"It helps me calm down."

"Calm down?" She glanced over and raised an eyebrow, and Vincent gulped slightly. "Why would you need to calm yourself down? That's dumb."

"Y-Yeah, isn't it?" Didn't she know that the animatronics tended to wander at night? Especially considering that she'd been in the vents for who knows how long...

Oh shit, the animatronics.

Vincent suddenly reached across the desk, snatching up the flashlight, and shone it down the hallway, heart racing and skin cold, chilled to the bone. How long had it been since he checked the hallway? Surely Foxy was about ready to pounce on him, hook and hand up and ready, dislocated jaw gaping wide open!

Nothing.

Not even a trace of his mechanical body--and for that matter the others. It was unnervingly quiet, broken only by the hum of the fan and the shuffling that Clarence made. He glanced over at her, confused, wanting to ask her where they were but not expecting her to know the answer. She was just a kid, after all. What could she possibly know about the current predicament that he was under?

He lowered the flashlight, collapsing into his seat, letting the flashlight clatter onto the ground. He was so tired, he could barely keep his eyes open. But he had to stay awake, he had to finish his job until six o'clock in the morning came around and he could go home and take a small nap.

"Shit," he grumbled, rubbing his eyelids. It was no use. He was going to fall asleep at this rate, with the adrenaline fading in his veins, with a child's life in danger.

"Cuss." Vincent glanced over at her, faintly registering her disinterested expression.

"Shit," he repeated.

There was a short moment of silence before she shrugged and placed the Toy Bonnie figure back on the desk, looking back at him. "Take me home with you."

Adrenaline. He sat upright at that, shocked. "What?!"

"If you don't, I'll tell your boss that you're the murderer."

Vincent stared at her for a moment, wide-eyed, shocked, heart beating. A steely calm passed over him like a torrential wave, and he let himself smile slightly, leaning back with a faint chuckle. "...Maybe it'd be best," he muttered, rubbing his face. "Best to... get it out of the way. Confess everything. Go to jail, maybe get the death sentence. You know?" He was so tired of pretending. He didn't know how much more he could take. Four years he'd lied. Four years he'd acted like he was normal and fine. Four years he'd kept the grizzly, dark secret to himself, hidden away under lock and key.

He coughed.

He killed that kid on accident.

He forgot to adjust the springlocks of Fredbear on accident.

The rest was with a conscious effort. They were no accident.

"So you did kill them?" she questioned.

She already knew the truth. There was no need to hide it from her.

"...Yes." There was some sort of finality in this word, as if he were closing the door on his life and welcoming his death."

"When?"

"A few years ago," he admitted, trying to keep from crying. Someone who was like him didn't deserve such things. Maybe he should work some overtime just to get less sleep than he'd been getting. Maybe he should just give up on trying to put the past behind him, because the past always ran up behind him.

"Not the recent murders?"

"No." His voice choked, and he went quiet, covering his face with one hand, trying to keep himself composed.

"So why did you try to kill me?"

"I don't know. I thought that you were a brat."

"I _am_ a brat."

He could see that now, but he wondered whether he even cared at that point. Even if she were a brat, was it really her fault? He wondered. And then he decided:  _No, it doesn't matter. I wouldn't have the motivation to do it, anyways._ If he were to kill her, it would be to get caught.

So why did he pull a knife on her in the first place?

 _Because I could,_ he thought, coughing.

"You're sick," he heard her say.

"No, I'm not. My throat's just raw."

And then he remembered what she said about what he should do with her--bring her back to his home, or she'd tell the police he was a killer. He looked up, the clump in his throat dying down just a little bit. "And no, even if you tell the police that I'm a murderer"--which was true, he thought--"you're not going to stay with me."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Because it's not fit for kids to live in."

She tilted her head.

"Because I don't have much food to begin with, and I don't have any soap, and all I have for food are three cans of soup and half a pack of raw toast--"

"Raw toast?" she questioned, eyes widening. The fan disrupted the silence again, persistent.

She broke into laughter, laughter so loud he was sure the cameras would hear it, laughter so loud she doubled over onto her knees and had to support herself on the desk, laughter so loud he worried in the back of his mind that she'd choke on her own breath. Vincent sat there, confused, staring at her child hand. "W-What's so funny?"

She laughed a little longer before letting go of the desk. He heard her back press against the desk as she leaned against it, dissolving into giggles, before devolving into quiet snickering. "'Raw toast,'" she repeated. "Do you mean... b-bread?"

He felt the heat rise in his face. That kid was making fun of him, wasn't she? How the mighty have fallen... well, he was never mighty to begin with. Her pale hand reached up and pressed against the top of the desk again, pushing herself up. A few papers and newspaper clippings rustled on the desk, almost falling off. When she finally stood up, she was holding her sides, a bright smile on her face.

Oh.

She just found it funny.

That wasn't to say he wasn't still embarrassed. He wasn't even angry, just feeling wave after wave of heat cross over his cheeks. He tried to glare at her, just for a second, but ended up burying his face in his hands. "Fuck..."

"S-so, Purple Guy, can I stay with you?" she asked again, limping to his side. The sneer was in her voice; he didn't even have to look over at her to know that she grinned like a Cheshire cat. "If you won't let me, I'll tell your friends that you call bread 'raw t-toast.'"

She stifled her laughter as best she could. Part of Vincent found himself imagining Scottish's reaction to learning of such a phrase. The other part of him wished that he had the passion to kill children again. Conjure it up from somewhere, step back in the past and take the phone and bash it over her head until she collapsed onto the ground, and continue bashing it into her until she lay in a pool of her own blood with her clothes and skin stained red and her body slowly grew colder...

But of course, passion couldn't just be made. It had to be there to begin with, or spurred on by an event or an idea, and couldn't be blocked off by a dam that stopped its flow. And his dam was so filled and cluttered that he forgot about how it felt and thought it better that the flow didn't disrupt everything he built since.

Vincent sighed. "How long?" he asked, rubbing his scalp with his tired, weary fingers.

"A week or so," she said. "Depending on your hospitality, maybe longer, maybe shorter."

Something told him that if he decided to be rude to his unwanted guest, that she'd go on ahead and tell everyone everything--that he was a murderer who called bread 'raw toast'. Vincent grit his teeth together slightly before nodding.

The clock struck 6.

 _Maybe I shouldn't be so bothered by it,_ he thought, walking her to his car and greeting Scott after she went into said car and closed the door. They exchanged a few words--"How did your night go?" Good, not much trouble. "Okay, that's great. Remember what I told you and get to sleep, alright?" Alright, sure, Scottish. I'll be sure to do so--before he opened the driver's seat and hopped in, starting the car before beginning to amble away. Already he forgot about the kid.

Until she made her presence known by lightly tugging on his shirt when there weren't many cars on the road (there never were at this time, but this was less than usual). He looked at her disinterestedly for a split moment before turning back to the road, lifting a hand to rub the haziness out of his eyes. "Yeah?"

"Where do you live?"

"In a motel," he said wryly, turning on his turn signal. It was hard to talk and drive at the same time. His brain was mushy murk, it was hard to even remember where he lived, much less how he always got there, or why he always dreaded even coming back home when he knew deep in his hart that he should look forward to it.

"In  _this_ part of town?" There was a tone of disgust to her voice as she glanced out the window, taking in the abandoned buildings with broken windows barely visible in the flickering lamp post light. The buildings were predominantly either motel complexes or small convenience stores, dusted with rotting blush and polished with chipped paint that could be described as anything but pretty. Literally  _anything_ but pretty--but Vincent really didn't have many options, and compared to where he was, this was his piece of heaven.

"If you don't like it, you can jump out the car and walk home," he said, frowning. "I don't have to drive you, and I can't waste my gas on anywhere other than where I need to go."

He expected a smart remark, but she was intelligent enough to shut her mouth and keep quiet. That didn't stop her from glancing around with evident distaste shining in her black, cold eyes.

He pulled up to one of the oldest, most worn-down motels in the neighborhood--the one with the cheapest rent. Low security, old, decrepit locks, creaky floorboards and hallways that moaned at night. The doors were out in the open for ease of access, and luckily there was only one floor, or else Vincent would have to go to the second-cheapest motel and end up being sacked at the end of the month. He was worried that if there were anyone romping around on the nonexistent second floor, then the floor would collapse on top of him and he'd have to pay repairs and hospital bills.

It was shocking that Scottish and his little brother were making good life progress in 'this part of town'.

He took out his key and inserted it into the lock, jiggling it a little bit to loosen the lock. He turned the knob, too, though hesitantly. It was hard to say when his room was broken into or not, harder to say when there was someone in there, and harder still to know when the key hit the lock's sweet spot in just that right way that the doorknob wouldn't lock up and delay his slumber any longer. This was one of those occasions. The door was in dire need of replacement, but there was nothing Vincent could do about it. This was a place for the desperate and the desolate, and he was both.

Clarence said something--he didn't register what it was, but could guess that it was an insult. He looked over at her, still trying the doorknob, the key slightly stuck, uncomprehending. She looked up at him, crossing her arms, raising an eyebrow.  _Why? Why are you giving me that look?_

"How long have you lived here?"

Ah, was that what she'd been saying? He thought it was another insult, or a blow to his self-esteem. He swallowed, throat slightly sore, before turning back to the door and by some miracle opening it within five minutes this time. "Ah, maybe... a few years? I don't know, it's hard to tell."

That was a lie--he didn't bother counting the years. He didn't like counting the years because he preferred that they blend all together in a sick cauldron and made one sumo year. Oversized and overweight and sitting lazily on the couch with mixed emotions and hormonal balances--if he weren't so tired, he would have laughed. If someone were to jump at him right now, he wouldn't even have the strength to keep in the door way. If someone were to shove him to the side with what little money he had saved up in his old coffee canister, he wouldn't be able to get up.

If someone were to come into his room without him even taking a step into it despite not really even being supposed to be there, he wouldn't be able to stop her.

The light turned on, and he flinched, covering his eyes. He walked inside, closing the door behind him, vaguely deciding:  _So no one came in when I was gone._

And then he thought:  _I really need to hide my money better than I have been._

Vincent completely forgot about it when he heard the kid clicking her tongue. He glanced at her,  curiously confused and distant. "This place is absolute garbage," she said, shaking her head sadly. He saw sarcasm in her posture rather than heard it in her voice.

Vincent glanced around, shielding his eyes from the dim light, looking at the dirty floor with paper and grocery bags all over the place, some stuffed with garbage in a vain attempt to clean up, some with cans of soup he had yet to put away, most just strung around without organization or coordination. The ceiling: Dirtied, with a fan that looked like it would fall at any moment, and an window that never opened had a hole from when the previous tenant got robbed. Cracks in the wall that looked like spiderwebs, specks of cockroach and rat shit on the ground, with a few of the former strung across the floor. Not even the furniture gave any insight to affordability: It was cheap, made of filthy fabric, torn, infested with bedbugs. Well-worn, because it was always right there when he came back from work.

Home sweet home.

Vincent set the keys on the table and walked into the kitchen area, opening one of the cabinets and pulling out one of four cans of soup. "Um, do you want some?" he questioned, glancing at her.

She was looking around, a distant look in her eye. Her expression wasn't unreadable, but from such a distance it was impossible to say what she was thinking or, for that matter, feeling.

Clarence sighed.

Her voice seemed as far off as if she had been three miles away and shouted with a megaphone through water. Vincent figured that what she said was, "Sure, I'll have some"--it'd make things so much easier--and nodded his head, reaching across the counter for the can opener.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Five Nights at Freddy's belongs to Scott Cawthon, the genius behind the series.
> 
> I hope you guys are enjoying the story so far--I'm just making it up as I go along, really. God, I gotta update these on fanfiction.
> 
> Feel free to leave criticism at the foot of the story--one can't get any better as a writer without coaching.


	4. Stand-in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes Winston wasn't really that bad, he supposed. He was just a creep over half the time.

Somebody with Vincent's common sense should have known that maybe it wasn't the best idea to let a kid stay in a vermin-infested room for longer than a minute--no wait, make that _ever_ \--but he didn't even have time to kick her out before he collapsed onto the couch and lost consciousness to a broken oblivion. He was so tired that he didn't even have a proper dream--just darkness that shifted and distorted slightly every now and again, silence as far as the ears could hear, floating in a welcome abyss for what seemed like a temporary eternity.

When he woke up, it was day, and he lay on the couch staring at a tilted cabinet.  _Can't afford to fix that, either,_ he thought, forcing himself to sit up. He glanced around, fuzzily looking at his apartment.  _Can't fix that, can't fix that--definitely can't fix that._ Would  _fix that if I had the tools._ He glared pointedly at the fridge before sighing.

"Not like I have the time, anyways."

Vincent looked down at himself, noting his slightly-faded Freddy uniform still intact, and stood up, trying to rub the sleep from his eyes and not really succeeding. His eyes were burning. It was hard to keep them open, and when he tried, his vision grew fuzzy and he had to rub his eyes with his hand to get them to water up. He lost his footing and stumbled, hitting the ground hard, just laying on his side staring into the distance for a moment.

Could he just lay here? Could he just stay and not have to work? Could he just disappear, and would anyone notice?

Probably not.

He didn't know which question he just answered, but either way, with a defeated sigh, he conceded--he had to go to work, after all, and get more soup. His muscles ached as he pushed himself back to his feet and went into the kitchen. There was no coffee, there was no fridge or healthy breakfast. The only thing that really worked in there was a toaster, and that was it. How could anyone let people live in places like this? Vincent walked over to the cabinet and opened it, pulling out a bag about half-empty except for slices of raw toast.

Bread, other people called it.

He opened it and popped a few in the toaster, reaching back into the cabinet and taking out a canister of Nutella that was practically weightless. It hurt his fingers to open them, but he managed; he spread the Nutella on the toast and walked outside, already half-finished with his first bit, the rest on a paper plate that he'd eat on the way to work. No time to wash up, he knew he overslept because of how warm it was outside.

He picked up a white sheet of paper from the windshield of the car and stuffed it in his pocket, promising himself that he'd read it when he got to work and things went back into a schedule. It was almost 9:30, he guessed, almost time to start work. If he hurried and didn't delay, he could get there in fifteen minutes, if traffic was good.

Or if his car would fucking work today.

Grumbling lowly, he hit his hand on the steering wheel, stepping out of the car and opening the hood. Hot smoke shot up at him and drifted up in thick, black plumes, poisoning the air for all it was worth. He'd have to walk to work today.

Well, he supposed it was a matter of time. After having had the loyal steed for so long, it was time it rested quietly.

Vincent closed the door and locked it, stuffing the keys into his pocket as he started down the sidewalk. He could always be optimistic and think: I'll fix it when I can afford it. But he knew that the likelihood of his situation getting any better was minuscule. Not even--it existed in a different dimension. Best not to get his hopes up or he'd end up in disappointment.

Muscles aching, Vincent glanced over at the buildings on the other side of the street, a deep sigh leaving his mouth. It'd been a good car, though--ever since he earned it for being the best student in his collage class. He was so happy that he actually took it for a joyride and ended up running out of gas before he could get back 'home'--he ended up being helped by some friendly pedestrians, who saw his sorry state and opted to help him. They directed him to a nearby gas station and bought the gas for him, and Vincent was practically in tears, apologizing and saying how he didn't deserve it. They say it only happens in movies, that it's only stories that you hear by word of mouth or on paper, but the gratitude was real.

It felt like forever before he got to the restaurant, and he expected to first see Scottish but found Winston instead. He frowned at him, and Winston smiled back. A dark gleam in his eye was enough to disclose his displeasure.

"You're late, Vincent." A certain lilt in Winston's voice brought his nerves on high alert; the deadly calm before the storm, they called it.

"Sorry, my car broke down." Brutal honesty was the best policy; that was what his teachers always told him anyway, when he used to steal food from the canteen and school supplies from other students' bags.

"Mmm." His grin curved slightly, almost a grimace. He didn't believe him.

Vincent stepped around him in order to step inside. Winston let him enter, closing the glass door behind them. Vincent tried to ignore him.

"Don't do that again, Vincent," Winston said quietly. He turned sharply to look at him, almost instinctively. The older man smiled sweetly at him, though the predatory glint in his eye still remained. "Scotty and I were getting  _so_ worried about you."

Winston had that about him--same tone of voice, same words people would use every day, and it'd call someone as if their mothers were calling their name. In the case of Vincent, it brought back bad memories he didn't want to remember but always remembered anyway. A shudder involuntarily raced down his spine, and he clutched his arm tightly. "...W-Won't."

What did he say? He didn't remember saying anything before that.

His smile brightened, and the veil over his eyes seemed to lift. "Good! Scotty's in the office, of course," he said, beginning to yammer on happily. Vincent suppressed another shake, squeezing his arm slightly as he tried to show respect to Winston but he found that he just couldn't focus on it today. His body was aching all over and he was starting to feel dizzy, a chronic sort of dizziness that wasn't helped by his vague struggle to breathe. "He'll be glad to see you, dove."

Vincent nodded, working his way through the small throng of adults attempting to make reservations. Most let him through. The ones who spoke to him mainly attempted to get him to get in a good word for them, and he generally agreed despite telling himself that he'd likely forget by the time he got to the office. Anyways, it wasn't like they couldn't get reservations in the first place--this wasn't an adoption center, after all.

He did forget when he got into the office, and when he saw Scottish, he had his head rested on his arm, looking entirely snug and warm. _At ease, soldier_ , Vincent thought, watching for a moment as his pen lazily scribbled on some papers, his eyes half-lidded and drowsy. He wished he could be like that.

"Hey, Scott."

Scott sat upright a little jerkily, glasses turning askew; he adjusted them, narrowing his eyes slightly. "...Vincent? Jesus, don't scare me like that."

"Sorry." He couldn't help but smile slightly, walking up to the desk. "Um, my car broke down. I had to walk to work."

"Don't overwork yourself, okay? Otherwise you're going to get sick." He sniffed and rubbed his nose, grunting. "Well, we might all be getting sick, you know?"

"Maybe." Standing in front of the desk, he noted the toys on the corner--watching, smiling, waving. At night they provided some sort of divine protection that never actually did anything but it was nice to think and believe that it might because if it didn't he felt that he would finally snap and

"Have you seen anything that might make people sick?"

\--"No," Vincent said instantly, shaking his head. Something nagged in the back of his mind, telling him that there was something,  _something_ that he was supposed to tell Scottish, something he was supposed to do, but he just couldn't  _remember_ what it could be. Maybe it wasn't important, but lately his memory had been failing him more and more.

"You don't seem yourself lately."

Vincent shrugged, not knowing what else to say. He'd zoned out, and the world was gently spinning again--it made him feel a little sick, but he swallowed, trying to keep from experiencing nausea. His mouth watered and his stomach twisted slightly.

_Shit,_ he suddenly thought, blinking a few times. Maybe Scottish was right--maybe he  _was_ coming down with something. But he couldn't let the stand-in boss know about that, because then he'd be taken off work, and then he wouldn't get any money and then he'd be worse off than he was before. If you can't afford to pay rent, you get tossed onto the streets. Wasn't that how life worked?

He forced a smile. It was a little painful to attempt, but he did it. "I feel fine, Scottish. Thanks, though."

The smile didn't appease the God of Freddy's, instead making him frown. His glasses gave off a strange sheen, almost as if hiding how angry he really was. "All right, Vincent. Get to work, if you feel up to it. Maybe it'd be best if you work with the animatronics. " But the voice was still soft, unimposing. Scottish wasn't one to push things.

The forcefulness of the smile lightened, and the man with the pony tail nodded his head. "All right, I'll get right to that. Thanks."

"And eat a cinnamon roll or something," he added as an afterthought, perching his cheek on his hand. "Get something in you other than that toast you always eat."

"Oh, I have some toast in my ca--"

It hit him like a train, and he stopped dead in his tracks. Remembering how he opened the car door and set the plate of toast on the passenger's seat. Remembering how he threw a small fit in the car, hitting the steering wheel in aggravation and despair. Remembering how he left the car and closed the door, admitted defeat, and started walking. Without the toast. His breakfast was at home.

Scottish raised an eyebrow during the time it took him to process this.

"...Okay, I'll get something," he said, defeated. The frown turned to a smile as Vincent left the office, a light, embarrassed blush dusted across his cheeks.

Vincent snatched a cinnamon roll from the kitchen (all but ignoring the pointed glares of the others as they watched him) and stepped into the back room, hungrily sucking off the sticky frosting from his fingers. He did feel a little better. The cinnamon roll tasted like heaven.

...Heaven he didn't deserve. He didn't deserve any of this kindness and thoughtfulness from Scottish, as much as he might want to. He deserved to be seen as people saw Winston, except without Winston's ignorant acceptance and fully taking in all the blame that people rose around him. Why was he so impulsive?

Working on the machines usually calmed him, but for some reason he found he couldn't really focus on it. So he ended up sitting against the wall, slipping in and out of consciousness, the staff coffee doing nothing to keep him from exhaustion. It usually didn't work, anyway--as of late, it was more a formality than anything else. Disgusting, gritty, caffeine-choked; it was the best part of his working day. It was a wonder he didn't drink any during his night shift.

...Well. He had other things to keep his mind occupied during that time.

The sound of metal against linoleum, scratching and cracking the floor.

The sight of jagged figures watching him from the hallway, heads tilted, bodies at an angle to run, casting shadows that danced unbecomingly.

The sound of unwholesome music boxes, when he flipped back to the screen, and the fear permeating in his chest when he saw the tall, mechanical beast, standing, smiling at the camera, like it knew there was something watching behind it...

He jumped, pulling himself out of the dregs of sleep, before finding Winston crouching in front of him, a bloodied rag in his hand. Vincent immediately pulled himself away, shocked. "W-What're you doing?"

"Your nose is bleeding," Winston answered, tossing him the rag. "What, so now co-workers can't help co-workers?"

"I don't--" He fell quiet, trying to regain his senses, clearing his throat. Now that Winston mentioned it, though, he did feel a thick, sticky liquid running down his nose, and upon it trickling into his mouth when he spoke, it did taste like iron. Vincent wiped his nose with his arm, staring down at the smudged, red liquid. He carefully picked the rag up from his lap, pressing it against his nostrils, barely noticing that Winston was walking around--the next thing he knew, he was inspecting Old Freddy, lifting up his hat to look down at the wiring and crossbeams beneath.

"You know," Winston said, a weird sternness in his voice, "it's not healthy if you're just collapsing from exhaustion wherever you sit down and if you're wandering around like a ghost because of how tired you are. You should take a day or two off."

"I can't--"

Winston's smile quirked deviously, and Vincent fell quiet. "You can and you will. 'M not sayin' that you can't come t' work, but this in't school."

Ah. His voice was dripping with his lazy nature, sharply contrasting with what he was saying.

"If it was school, you'd be able t' sleep on th' bus or somethin', or after ye do your work." He turned to face him, eyes narrowed. "But this isn't school, Vincent."

"This isn't school," Vincent agreed after a while, pulling himself out of his blankness. The man in the pink uniform nodded his ascent.

"You need to sleep if you wanna do a good job, Vincent. You can't forget that."

"I don't have time to rest."

"Rest now, Vincent. I'll cover ya. Say you couldn't make much progress 'cause you don't have the needed... extra stuff."

Vincent took a moment to process. "...Huh?"

Shockingly patiently, Winston elaborated, "I'll tell Scotty that you don't have the parts needed t' fix the old ones. It wouldn't be a lie, shipments won't come in 'til next week, and until then I can take care of the guard duty while you take some time to rest yerself up. Sound like a deal?"

Sometimes Vincent was surprised at how brotherly Winston could be, even to someone like him, who didn't deserve it. Yes, Winston was creepy, and Vincent didn't like him very much personally, and neither did the staff or the parents, but it was times like this that Vincent couldn't help but wonder if all of their perceptions were screwed up. It shamed him to say that he hoped that was the truth, then and there, because God, how he wanted to sleep.

Vincent wondered, not for the first time, whether Winston had any family.

"You know I can't do that," Vincent tried to say, but Winston clicked his tongue sharply and shook his head. Eventually his arguments died down with a sigh, hanging in the air, active as his current state of mind. He murmured his ascent, and the brown-haired man broke into a smile, standing up and walking out of the spare parts room while Vincent lay against the wall, feeling his eyes droop against his will. He wondered how long he'd be able to sleep before he'd be woken up, wondered whether or not Winston really would cover for him. Grudgingly he mentally thanked the creep before softly chiding himself for not deserving such generosity.

But it was all a vain battle, and eventually he felt his mind drift beyond the fuzzy contours of sleep. All he could really feel in reality was that the wall felt like heaven's clouds.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, he did forget about Clarence.
> 
> No, it's not because I forgot about her.


End file.
